FITZSIMMONS. I’m glad to hear that, Harry.  You were tearing off a pretty fast pace in those days. [Pause, in which MAUD nods.] Still punch the bag?

MAUD. [In quick alarm, glancing at punching bag.] No, I’ve got out of the hang of it.

FITZSIMMONS. [Reproachfully.] You haven’t forgotten that right-and-left, arm, elbow and shoulder movement I taught you?

MAUD. [With hesitation.] N-o-o.

FITZSIMMONS. [Moving toward bag to left.] Then, come on.

MAUD. [Rising reluctantly and following.] I’d rather see you punch the bag.  I’d just love to.

FITZSIMMONS. I will, afterward.  You go to it first.

MAUD. [Eyeing the bag in alarm.] No; you.  I’m out of practice.

FITZSIMMONS. [Looking at her sharply.] How many drinks have you had to-night?

MAUD.  Not a one.  I don’t drink—­that is—­er—­only occasionally.

FITZSIMMONS. [Indicating bag.] Then go to it.

MAUD.  No; I tell you I am out of practice.  I’ve forgotten it all.  You see, I made a discovery.

[Pauses.]

FITZSIMMONS. Yes?

MAUD.  I—­I—­you remember what a light voice I always had—­almost soprano?

[FITZSIMMONS nods.]

MAUD.  Well, I discovered it was a perfect falsetto.

[FITZSIMMONS nods.]

MAUD.  I’ve been practising it ever since.  Experts, in another room, would swear it was a woman’s voice.  So would you, if you turned your back and I sang.

FITZSIMMONS. [Who has been laughing incredulously, now becomes suspicious.] Look here, kid, I think you are an impostor.  You are not Harry Jones at all.

MAUD.  I am, too.

FITZSIMMONS. I don’t believe it.  He was heavier than you.

MAUD.  I had the fever last summer and lost a lot of weight.

FITZSIMMONS. You are the Harry Jones that got sousesd and had to be put to bed?

MAUD.  Y-e-s.

FITZSIMMONS. There is one thing I remember very distinctly.  Harry Jones had a birth mark on his knee. [He looks at her legs searchingly.]

MAUD. [Embarrassed, then resolving to carry it out.] Yes, right here. [She advances right leg and touches it.]

FITZSIMMONS. [Triumphantly.] Wrong.  It was the other knee.

MAUD.  I ought to know.

FITZSIMMONS. You haven’t any birth mark at all.

MAUD.  I have, too.

FITZSIMMONS. [Suddenly springing to her and attempting to seize her leg.] Then we’ll prove it.  Let me see.

MAUD. [In a panic backs away from him and resists his attempts, until grinning in an aside to the audience, he gives over.  She, in an aside to audience.] Fancy his wanting to see my birth mark.

FITZSIMMONS. [Bullying.] Then take a go at the bag. [She shakes her head.] You’re not Harry Jones.

MAUD. [Approaching punching bag.] I am, too.